


Cause and Effect

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Challenge: Kitchen Table Challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 04:27:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/793963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tipsy Blair, the kitchen table, and Bone's challenge!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cause and Effect

**Author's Note:**

> This is my response to the Bone's Kitchen Table Challenge. I tried to keep the style similar to that of the Territorial Imperative series. However, I don't alternate POV. This story is wholly Blair. 
> 
> Oh yeah... and I completely ignored the 1500 word guideline. It seems the more   
> stories I write, the more verbose I become. Hmmmmm... 
> 
> To be taken with a grain of salt. Remember... tipsy Blair... Blair's POV... Suz's dry humor. It's nothing kinky... just plain old vanilla. However, as it is the first real m/m I've ever written, I prefer not to venture too far out into the water! 

## Cause and Effect

by Suzanne Finn

Author's disclaimer: All things The Sentinel belong to Pet Fly, Paramount, and associated productions. I am merely borrowing this universe for my own pleasure... and theirs. 

Rated NC-17 for strong language and male/male sex. If you're under age, or not into such things... well, suffice it to say that now would be a good time to leave. 

I would be remiss if I didn't point out... at no time is a condom used in this story. However, this is a *story*, a piece of fiction. In reality, please be responsible and safe; use protection.

* * *

There's a fine line between cool and three sheets to the wind. 

Me? I'm cool. 

I haven't been this well oiled in a long time. I forgot what it feels like. It's surreal... a caricature of reality, a total sensory-altering experience. Tactile, auditory, visual... everything... is distorted, fuzzy around the edges, exaggerated, warm. 

Definitely warm. 

I'm usually freezing. Jim's hot. I'm not. Modus operandi in this household. He tramps around in next to nothing and I look like a walking advertisement for the Eddie Bauer winter catalogue... underwear and all; though, my personal style tends toward the eclectic, not the swank. Still, Jim's more of a minimalist, and I'm a minimum of three layers kind of guy. 

Look at him. He hasn't even broken a sweat. 

Damn. 

He looks good. 

He always looks good. Always. Any way, any how. Rain-soaked. Dressed to the nines. Unshaven. Sleep-rumpled. Sweaty... especially sweaty... yeah... sprawled over me, slick against my skin, sucking the life from me, milking the reason from... 

Did I say warm? It's not warm. It's hot. 

Scorching. 

It's got to be the beer... some ambient side effect. Peripheral blood vessels dilate with the consumption of alcohol. Blood vessel expansion leads to the loss of body heat while producing a feeling of warmth. The perceived elevated temperature is merely an illusory... 

Whoa. 

At least I know the brain is still functional. Synapses are firing properly, providing for coherent thought and the ability to pull that relatively useless piece of information from it's hiding place. Even my vocabulary is still pretty impressive. I haven't been reduced to anything remotely resembling monosyllabic communication, which does not necessarily imply short words... guttural noises fall well within that category, as does moaning. Been there. Done that. 

A sloshed Blair is not a pretty sight. 

At the moment, I may be lit up, but I'm cool. And definitely warm... 

Okay... motor skills are a _bit_ impaired. 

Who the hell buttoned this shirt anyway? I never button the outer layer. It is so not cool to button the outer layer. Buttoning the outer layer implies dweeb. Buttoning the outer layer _is_ dweeb. Have I been walking around like this all day? 

"Having a problem there, Junior?" 

Huh? Problem? No, not at all. An off moment? Yes. 

So the coordination is a bit challenged. Precision motor skills are among the first things affected. Kind of ironic... the feeling of warmth combined with diminished coordination, the urge to remove one's clothing combined with the inability to do so. Just deserves I suppose. But a problem? Hell no. This is a natural and expected incidental result... one that I can handle. 

"Got everything under control, big guy." 

Yup... everything is under control. I'm a fucking intellectual. My brain _does_ work. Said brain is capable of commanding movement. Appendages are capable of responding. See? Look at those fingers go. One button conquered. Movement may be a bit slow, and perhaps even a bit awkward, but hell, that's a minor detail. 

God, I hope he's not watching. 

Two. 

Fuck it all... that took all of... oh... sixty seconds. Dexterity is no longer part of my vocabulary. Neither is speed. Nor grace. Nor... 

It's not the journey, but the end result that matters. 

And with minimal concentrated effort, the final button has been unfastened. The shirt is off! The crowd goes wild! 

Yup... I'm cool. 

There is definite merit in the concept of drinking naked. 

"Hey Chief, you wanna grab a couple more beers?" 

There's even more merit in the concept of drinking with someone with whom you'd like to get naked. 

Smile at the nice man, Sandburg. 

He's cute when he frowns... that little crease between his eyebrows. He has a much more expressive face than he'd like to think. No, that's not true. His face can be unfathomable, but the eyes, man... those beautiful crystalline eyes. What's the matter, Jim? Something piqued your curiosity? My smile making you nervous? The look in my eyes making your mouth go dry? The... 

"Sandburg?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Beer?" 

Oh yeah. 

Beer. 

Get beer. 

Pizza and beer. Hmmmm... 

Thirty minutes ago, food was imperative. Hell... the pizza was _my_ idea. I haven't had anything to eat since breakfast... well... if you don't count the three beers I've had while we've waited for the pizza. Oh... four, if you count the one currently in hand. Four beers. Anyway, thirty minutes ago, I was starving. But surreal is fickle. And now, feeling just this side of plastered, pepperoni, mushrooms, and extra cheese staring up at me from a grease-stained cardboard box... well... the idea of food has gone from a vital compulsion to something way beyond repulsive. 

I've never seen anything quite so revolting in my life. 

Okay... amendment: I've never seen anything _edible_ quite so revolting in my life. Okay... that's not true either. An amendment to the amendment? Doesn't matter. It's disgusting no matter how you slice it. 

Yuck. 

"Here you go." 

A plate. 

He's handed me a plate. 

Christ. Just hand me a fucking bucket, Jim, because the sight of that vapid congealing grease-laden blob is going to make me... 

Whoa. 

Definitely not cool. 

Okay... don't look at the pizza. Stay away from the pizza. Pizza is very very bad. Beer, on the other hand... 

It's rather odd that the moment the stomach hitches up and objects to the sight and smell of something utterly revolting, the immediate reaction is to reach for the old aqua vitae to wash the complaint down. It's either that or heave all over the table. 

I can think of far better ways to spill myself. 

Far better. 

"Everything okay, Chief?" 

Don't worry, big guy. 

"Everything's great." Better than great. I'm just free associating on bodily emissions. You'd be surprised how creative I can be. In fact, I could probably free associate my bodily emissions all the way to Kevin Bacon, but... I'd rather not. No. I'd rather free associate them across the table... to you. 

Yeah. 

Far better. 

Increased desire... another relatively uncelebrated, ambient side effect of alcohol consumption; uncelebrated in all probability because it is a direct result of lowered inhibitions. Lowered inhibitions steal all the glory. After all, increased desire is not a guaranteed payoff, and lowered inhibitions... well, they are far more certain, and can be far more entertaining. Like last New Year's Eve. Man... Rafe had _way_ too many kamikazes, and he's _still_ paying for it. Yes... blackmail worthy events have resulted from alcohol induced inhibition reduction. Say _that_ ten times, fast. 

Of course, previously unknown planes of consciousness have been discovered from alcohol encouraged passion. Hell, Jim and I have discovered those without... 

Damn. I'm dripping. 

It was the tongue action... the quick draw into the mouth that followed. Yeah, that definitely did it. There's deep charity in that suck. Only, I'm not on the receiving end. His thumb is. 

I'm jealous. I'm actually jealous. 

"You haven't touched your pizza." 

"Not hungry." 

Decreased penile rigidity is clearly not one of the effects I am suffering. 

"You should eat something." 

There goes the index finger. 

God damn... he's doing that on purpose. He has _got_ to be doing that on purpose. 

"Sandburg... you okay? You're looking a little flushed." 

I'll give you flushed, big guy. 

"Chief?" 

He's really cute when he frowns. Even more so when his eyes widen like that and the eyebrows arch up. Hey Jim... your mouth is hanging open. What's the matter? Never seen a grown man crawl across a table before? 

Fuck! 

The pizza. 

Talk about deflating a moment, ruining a mood. 

There. Easily taken care of. 

How about I clean that up later and make it up to you now, Jim? After all, this is all _your_ doing, you know. The stain on my pants, the pizza on the floor... they're all your fault. You compelled me. That mouth compelled me crawl. That tongue compelled me sit. I'm only following orders. I'm listening. Isn't that what you're always telling me to do? 

... 

Huh. 

He hasn't moved... hasn't even flinched. 

He can't possibly be zoning. 

"Jim?" 

His eyes lift to mine. 

Oh yeah. He's with me. His face is expressionless, but he's with me. I can see it in those eyes. I can feel it in the heartbeat pounding against my palms resting against his chest. I can see it in the slight flush of his skin as I snake my feet between his legs, urge them apart. I can hear it in the catch of his breath as I curl the fingers of my hands, graze his nipples through his T- shirt, feel them harden. 

I know what he's thinking. 

I know what he wants. 

But still he hasn't moved. 

Stoic erotic pliancy. What a fucking turn on. Christ. I'm feeling... almost feral. Good word... feral. 

My hands are on the prowl. I'm cupping his face, running my thumbs over his lower lip. He's got the most sensually beautiful mouth; soft, warm lips, dryness opening to wetness, a hot, moist cave where the shrewd, clever animal that is his tongue lives. 

Predatory... another good word. Feral. Predatory. They define me. Explain me. Animate me. 

I know it's in there. 

His tongue. 

I'm crushing his mouth beneath mine. How I got here, I don't remember. I don't fucking remember. The engrams are there, but _where_ is anyone's guess. Alcohol messes with perception and memory, perhaps it messes with the neurological filing system as well. Who cares. Fuck the analysis of intoxication. This is way more urgent. 

I bid his mouth permit me entrance. His response is every bit as fervent as the demand. I can taste the need, the passion. It's like a declaration. Mine. We're fused together... lips... hearts... souls. One. I can feel it, as sure as I can feel his hair in my hands, his tongue in my mouth, his erection beneath the foot I've pressed into his crotch. This... _this_... sweet Jesus... this is beyond feral. His tongue has never done this before. Neither has mine. Shrewd and clever and very very inventive. 

Breathe. 

Gotta breathe. 

Inhale. 

Exhale. 

Damn. 

Oxygen is overrated. 

The man looks absolutely ripe for the taking. Blue eyes dark with desire beneath tousled hair. Skin flushed. Lips swollen and slightly parted as he pants for breath. 

"Damn." 

Yeah. Damn. 

That's enough of a breather. 

More. I need more. 

His shirt's gone. Ha! How's that for precision motor skills? 

Up, big guy. Stand. 

God damn it! Button-fly. He's got the fucking 501s on. I can handle a challenge. Most of the time, I welcome it. But at the moment, I'm at a disadvantage, and the savage beast raging for release inside my jeans doesn't give a shit about cause and effect... at least not as it relates to alcohol; it cares about results. Buttons do not lead to results. 

There is definite merit in the concept of drinking naked. 

No! He's gone. 

Yes! So are his jeans. 

There's even more merit in the concept of drinking with someone with whom you'd like to get naked... especially when that someone is sober. 

Smile at the nice man, Sandburg. 

"You're over dressed, Junior." 

Feral. Yup... that's a pretty damn accurate description, because feral rubs up against him, dares him with a look to do something about it. 

Whoa. 

He's quick... I'll give him that much. Quick, and efficient. Two shirts in one fell swoop. 

"Something funny, Sandburg?" 

Not at all. 

You're over dressed, big guy. 

I can handle this. See? Look at those fingers go... sliding between fabric and skin. Slow downward motion. No hesitation. No need for cognitive direction. Instinct. This is pure instinct. Basic. Elemental. Need. 

That's what he is... a need, an imperative. Mine. 

He's looking at me... my hair, my mouth, my chest, the bulge in my jeans, my eyes. His eyes reflect what I feel pulsing in my veins. The heat in the almost nonexistent space separating us is off the scale... palpable. 

So why am I shivering? 

... 

This engram thing is really starting to piss me off, man, because somehow he's on the table and I'm on the floor, kneeling between his spread legs, in some strange parody of genuflection. Yeah... I'm praying. Offering obeisance. And I don't have a fucking clue how I got here. And I want to know! Because I have a feeling it was great... however it happened... it was fucking great. 

Okay... covet not the past, especially when the present is staring you right in the face. Literally. 

He's weeping. 

My tongue strokes him clean. 

I love the taste of him, the bitter sweetness he offers. I never thought I'd like this... the taste of a man in my mouth. I've tasted semen before... mine... on the lips a woman. It was really bizarre, the first time, tasting myself... knowing that was me. At the same time, it was kind of exciting, knowing _that_ was me. But that was _me_... it kind of went with the territory. But the taste of _another_ man... well... I thought I'd never like this. But damn. I like this. I _crave_ this. It's ambrosia. A gift. 

He's hot and hard and silk against my lips and tongue. The heat in my mouth intensifies as I draw him in. I can feel him throb in my mouth, anoint the back of my throat. I lave the underside of his dick, pull back, then move forward again until I meet resistance. It tastes different at that back of my throat. It tastes different at the tip of my tongue, along the side, at the back. Different receptors I suppose. And scent... scent... his scent fills me as I suck, tongue, nip, kiss, lick. It's heady, intoxicating. And I'm not talking alcohol here. I'm talking instinct... latent untamed need. 

He's gasping, moaning, trying to control his breathing. The effect is staggering... taste, touch, smell, sound... he's assaulting me from all directions. If I look into his eyes, I'll come. I pull back, tease the tip and then abandon it altogether to fondle his balls, suck them one by one into my mouth. They twitch in my mouth. A cry catches in his throat and it's too much. 

Back off... back off. I don't want to come. I don't want _him_ to come. Not yet. Not in my mouth. I have someplace else in mind. 

I lever myself up, straddle him. His mouth is beneath mine again, but gentle this time... just a whisper of a kiss. Teasing. 

Leave them wanting more. Isn't that the saying? Yeah. But I'm not one to tease... too much. 

Dangle a carrot... offer more. 

"Fuck me, Jim." 

Holy shit. Quick and efficient. That's Jim. I'm flat on my back, locked in a soul-searing kiss. And I'm naked! How'd I get like that? And his hands... his hands are magic... cradling me, fondling me, teasing me, stroking me. 

We fight for domination of the kiss, but my ground is undermined by the hand expertly playing me between my legs. I can't take it anymore. Resistance is futile. I surrender, man. I'm all yours. Always. 

"Now, Jim. Please." 

One thing about Jim... you don't have to repeat yourself. Especially when it's important. 

The tabletop is cool against my back. I didn't notice that before. Not surprising. God that man can kiss. The coolness feels odd when combined with the warmth of Jim's thighs against my ass, the warmth of his chest along the back of my legs, the warmth of his shoulders supporting the crook of my knees. 

His hands burn to the touch. His eyes are almost black with need and arousal... wow... I can see his eyes. I can see... wow. 

We've never made love this way. Face to face. That's not true... we _have_ made love face to face, but never _this_ way, never during anal intercourse. The perspective is... 

Breathe. 

This isn't so different. It's the same. It's exactly the same. Except that I can see him... his face, his eyes, the twitch of the muscles along his jaw, the flush of skin at the base of his neck... his eyes. God... the promise that holds is enough to make me... 

What the hell? Where is he going? 

"Jim?" 

Damn. 

Lube. 

Hold it right there, big guy. You're not going anywhere. I won't let you. 

I lead his fingers to my mouth, suckle them. 

"Blair..." 

He doesn't think it's enough. It's not. But we'll get there. 

Trust me. 

I encourage his hand to move between my legs, guide the other to my erection. Mull it over, big guy. We have everything we need right here. 

I can feel him tracing the rim. Hesitant... unsure. I trust you, Jim. I trust you. It won't hurt... because it's you. And I want this. I want you. 

And then he works a finger inside. Resistance. I feel resistance. It burns a little. It hurts a little. But that's okay, because the effect is devastating. I'm hard as hot iron, not that I haven't been for the last twenty minutes, but... man. 

He's figured it out. I can tell from his touch... suddenly certain, capable, sure... in me, stroking me, pumping me. 

I don't remember closing my eyes, but it's dark. So, I open them, and there he is, watching me, looking like he's been hit by a wave of blue heat, something utterly primal in his eyes. 

And then a second finger joins the first. Shit... it hurts. But that's okay. Because it's a good pain. I never knew how utterly necessary this could be... this pain... until Jim. 

He's fucking stopped. God Jim, you're driving me insane! 

The hand wrapped around my dick has slows it's frenzied rhythm. I feel a touch against the head. His fingers are hot, laving me, and then a fingernail presses into the slit, and I lose my mind, my self. I'm coming all over his hand and my stomach and the table... pain mixed with release. 

... 

The brain does function. Barely. 

I feel him pull his fingers out, then return, slick with my semen. 

Yeah... he's figured it out. 

A third... pushing, pressing, manipulating, circling. 

"More." 

That voice isn't mine. Couldn't be. But it is. Surreal. 

No. He's pulled out. God no. Please... 

He's there... him... pressing himself up against me, pushing his way inside. Slow... too damn slow. Too slow, Jim. I push myself against him in a sudden lunge... 

Sweet mother of God! That voice isn't mine. It's ours... together... fused... one. 

He's in me. And there's pain and pleasure and heat and an urge to purge and a sensation that accompanies them... a fullness that overrides everything else. 

And God bless him, he's just there, hands gripping my hips... waiting... waiting until I give the go ahead. 

Go ahead, Jim. Move. And he is. He's moving... gently... slowly... rocking out... then in... allowing me to adjust. I'm there big guy. 

Again. 

I snake a hand around my resurrected erection. Slick. Sticky. Quick recovery. Who'd have thought. Cause and effect. 

I pump myself, matching his pace. 

The line of his jaw sets. I can see the restraint... the cry that wants to escape, but he won't let it. Instead, he quickens his movement, pushes the envelope, drives harder, propels himself closer to the edge. He's beautiful. I've never seen him like this before... not like this. How could we not have done this? 

He's crossed the line. He's given up. He's relinquished. I know when it happens. His lips part to give way to an unintelligible cry. 

It's my undoing. 

... 

There's that engram thing again. Only this time, I know what's happened. 

He's collapsed, sprawled over me... sweaty, heart pounding, gasping for air. I'm with you, big guy. I'm there. 

"Damn." 

Yeah. Damn. 

Hot damn. 

That was cool. 

... 

I'm hungry. 

... 

I bet Jim looks good in chocolate. 

Finis. 


End file.
